


Coconut Water is not a Milk Substitute

by Moit



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Ambiguity, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Gen, Het, M/M, Mindfuck, Nosebleed, Panic Attacks, RPF, Slash, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-03 11:45:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moit/pseuds/Moit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dylan and Stiles somehow switch worlds. Dylan thinks (at first) that he's in a dream. </p><p>Stiles seems to have a better handle on our world because he's used to supernatural things, but he can't quite get over the fact that he's supposed to be an actor who plays himself on TV. He likes Hoechlin's smiley disposition, but misses Derek like a physical ache.</p><p>Posey and Scott are very similar, so there's that. Stiles becomes fast friends with Holland and Crystal because they are lovelies. But no one in either world seems to understand what exactly is going on because Stiles and Dylan look EXACTLY the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stiles Meets Not-Quite-Derek and Not-Scott

All Dylan really knew was that one minute he was on set with everyone else, and the next he was alone. He thought he laid down for a nap in his trailer, but when he opened his eyes, he seemed to be in Stiles’ bedroom; however, he didn't remember the sets being so realistic when they moved from Atlanta to L.A.

"Hello?" he called. 

He wandered out of the room and down the stairs of the _house_ he was apparently in. Linden was standing in the kitchen and Dylan relaxed visibly. 

"Man, I am so glad I found you. I thought I was left behind, or something." 

Linden gave him a confused look. "Is everything okay, Son? Why aren't you dressed for school?"

This time it was Dylan's turn to be confused. He didn't remember that line from the script, but what the hell. He looked down at the pajamas he wore and frowned. "I have no idea why I'm not dressed," he answered honestly. He waited for some signal, but he didn't see Jeff or any of the crew. 

"You better hurry up," Linden said, taking a sip from the coffee cup in his hand, "or you'll be late." 

"Right," Dylan nodded. This whole situation was way too weird. He forced on a pair of shoes that appeared to be his next to the front door. When he walked outside, however, he realized he was in an actual neighborhood. 

“Okay, what the ever-loving fuck?” he growled to the empty air. When he turned around, the house out of which he had stepped was still a house. “I’m dreaming,” he decided. “This is a dream, so I’ll do whatever the hell I want.”

The only vehicles in the driveway were a police cruiser and the old blue Jeep of Stiles' that they usually had to tow during Dylan's scenes. The keys were in the Jeep, (thank you, dream self), and unlike usual, it started right up. He'd be lucky if the piece of crap even made it down the street, yet it was better than nothing. He put the car in gear and headed down the road, turning off when he saw a sign for Beach Hills High School.

The school was filled with students. He didn't recognize any of them right away, but soon he spotted Posey's face in the crowd. 

"T-Pose!" he called, loping over to his costar's side. 

Posey just stared at him for a moment. "Did I miss something?" he asked, looking up and down Dylan's body. "And why are you in pajamas?" 

"It doesn’t matter," Dylan said, gesturing wildly. "I’m dreaming. It would be really nice if someone could wake me up right about now, but . . ." He trailed off as Crystal sidled up to Posey and gave him a very wet kiss on the mouth. "Okay _that_ was weird."

"You're funny, Stiles," Crystal said, flashing a smile that showed off her dimples. 

"So are you, _Allison_ , he said, emphasizing her character's name.

The school bell rang and Posey and Crystal began walking down the hallway. 

"Stiles, come on," Posey called, "we're going to be late."

“Oh, okay,” Dylan said, forcing a smile. “I’m Stiles and I’m going to class.” He took a step forward to follow Posey, but he tripped over his untied shoelaces and fell flat on his face. He pushed himself up off the floor and wiped absently at his throbbing nose. His fingers came away bloody. “What the fuck?” he whispered, staring at his hand. “That fucking hurt!” He glanced around the hallway, which was now empty except for Posey and Crystal, who were watching him silently.

"Okay, really guys, what is this? Prank Dylan day? Ha ha, I get it. You can come out now!" When the hallway continued to empty, something pooled low and cold in Dylan's gut. “I’m dreaming,” he said to Posey and Crystal, though the words sounded more like a plea. 

“Stiles, are you sure you’re okay?” Posey asked, his face growing more concerned by the second. 

"What's my real name?" Dylan demanded, ignoring the blood that was beginning to drip down over his lips. 

"I don't—" 

"Just say it." 

And then Posey said Stiles' real name, the name that Jeff had only shared with the two of them, the name they were under contract to keep secret. Dylan’s last coherent thought was: _I am so unbelievably fucked_. 

*

Meanwhile, back in L.A. at the MTV studio, Stiles was facing his own kind of drama. The bed he woke up in felt like his bed, looked like his bed, hell, even _smelled_ like his bed, but his room, instead of being attached to his house, had somehow become attached to a soundstage. 

"Oh, this is bad," Stiles said, scrambling back under his blankets. "This is really, really bad." Much to his dismay, when he emerged a moment later, the scenery had not changed. "Yep, I've really fucked up this time." 

"Cut!" a voice called out and Stiles flailed so hard he fell out of the bed. "Take five, everyone. Dylan, why don't you take thirty?" 

The soundstage erupted into a flurry of motion. Nobody paid much attention to Stiles, and it was all he could do just to stay calm. 

"Just relax, Stilinski. You're in some kind of Supernatural French Mistake universe, so you just need to find Scott and get the hell out of here." 

He meandered with as much normalcy as he could through the mass of people, eyes peeled for Scott. The first person he saw, however, was Derek, and his heart soared. 

Forgetting everything else around him, Stiles ran over and threw his arms around his boyfriend. "I am so glad I found you!" 

"Thanks," Derek said, patting his back, "but you just saw me like thirty minutes ago." 

"What?" Stiles said, his heart sinking. "No, I didn't." 

"In your trailer?" Both of Derek's eyebrows rose in confusion. "Is everything okay, Dylan?" 

That name again. 

"I'm totally good," he lied, pasting a smile on his face. "Totally." 

Side-stepping not-quite-Derek, he resumed his search for Scott with a heavy heart. Several people said hello to him, all using the name 'Dylan,' so Stiles knew that must be his name in this world. 

After wandering around and getting nowhere, Stiles finally found his way out the door and into the back lot. Scott was standing in front of a trailer talking to Lydia, or at least someone who looked like Lydia. 

Stiles approached them casually, remembering his run-in with not-quite-Derek. "Hey guys," he said. 

Lydia gave him a wide smile. "Hey, honey." Not Lydia, then. He wasn't dating her, though, was he? 

Scott lifted his chin in greeting. "Holland and I were thinking about hitting the club tonight. You in?" Not Scott, either. 

"Sure," Stiles said, because when in Rome, right?

"Great," Holland said. "I'll talk to Hoechlin and Crystal and we'll figure something out." She walked away, leaving them alone. 

Stiles turned to not-Scott and blew out a breath. If he could talk to anyone about this, it had to be his best friend's doppleganger.

*

When Dylan regained control of himself, he was in the nurse’s office with his head between his knees. He lowered the paper bag away from his mouth and sat up. 

“Are you feeling any better, Stiles?” the nurse asked softly. She had sent Scott and Allison back to class after they coaxed Dylan to her room so she could help him through his panic attack. 

“Don’t call me that,” Dylan rasped between breaths. 

“Okay,” the nurse said in a tone that she might use with a startled horse. “Do you think you can head back to class, or would you like me to call your father to come pick you up?”

Dylan’s mind flickered through a thousand thoughts. Of course he wanted his father to come pick him up out of this nightmare, but where was he even _at_? Beacon Hills wasn’t real—maybe he was in Hell, because this certainly wasn’t his idea of Heaven. “No,” he said finally. “I don’t know if I’m up for class today, but I should be okay to drive myself.” 

The nurse looked unsure for a moment, so Dylan gave her a small smile. “Well, okay,” she said, “but I’m going to write a note that I want you to give your father. If your . . . episodes become more frequent, you might need to go talk to your doctor about changing your prescription.”

“Sure,” Dylan said, wondering what kind of drugs Stiles was on in this universe. He snatched the note and escaped the nurse’s office as fast as he could without drawing any attention to himself.

The police cruiser was thankfully missing when he got back to the Stilinski house. Dylan wasn’t sure he could handle an angry Sheriff, no matter how fictional he believed him to be. He climbed the stairs to Stiles’ room and face-planted on the bed. A moment later, the window opened and a tall, dark Hoechlin-shaped figure crawled over the sill. 

Dylan’s heart thundered in his chest. He was face-to-face with a real live werewolf who may or may not want to rip his throat out. 

“What are you doing home?” Derek asked, standing up straight. 

Dylan just _knew_ the werewolf could hear his heartbeat. “I came home sick,” he said, but his voice didn’t sound convincing, even to his own ears. 

Derek took a step forward “You’re lying.”

“Derek,” Dylan started, growing really nervous now. With Hoechlin, it was just acting, but this—the person in front of him had very real fangs and claws; however, he was no expecting Derek to wrap those massive arms around him and scent his neck deeply. 

“You know you don’t have to lie to me, Stiles.” 

Dylan felt an involuntary shiver run down his spine. The timbre of Derek’s voice was one that Dylan wasn’t sure Hoechlin could even _produce_. Then Derek began to place soft, open-mouthed kisses along Dylan’s neck. 

“Whoa!” Dylan exclaimed, wiggling out of Derek’s grasp. 

“Okay, what happened today?” Derek countered, folding his arms across his chest. 

Dylan wrestled with whether or not to tell him the truth, but not only could Derek hear the lie, if Dylan decided to continue his ill-fated farce, he would be subject to kissing Derek, and possibly more. (He wasn’t opposed to the idea of kissing Hoechlin for the sake of his job, but that was a whole different ballgame.)

“Something did happen today. Something big. I think you should sit down.” 

Derek remained standing, and his face became even more scowly than Dylan ever though possible. 

“I’m telling you this only because I know you can tell that I’m not lying.” He took a breath to steady himself. Already he could feel the panic beginning to build in his chest again. “I know this is going to sound completely insane, but I’m not Stiles. My name is Dylan O’Brien, and I play Stiles on a television show called _Teen Wolf_.”

“Where is Stiles?”

“Stiles?” Dylan repeated. “In my world, I guess? Sorry, I didn’t really give much thought to the _fictional character I play on television_ in the midst of my own crisis!”

Derek let out a low growl, and Stiles backed up until his legs hit the edge of the bed. “Please, don’t do that. Until today, I was happily operating on the mistaken assumption that _werewolves do not exist_.”

Derek’s face remained impassive. “Get dressed. I may not give two shits about you, Dylan O’Brien, but we need to get Stiles back.” 

_Wow_ , Dylan thought as he retreated into the bathroom with a pile of Stiles’ clothes, _Hoechlin has nothing on this guy_.

*

Not-Scott led Stiles into what he presumed was the other boy’s trailer. Stiles stalled for time by looking around the small space that contained a kitchenette, television, couch, standard trailer set-up. There was a large mirror in one corner with big bulb lights like actresses had backstage in their dressing rooms. Stiles supposed it was fitting, since not-Scott was obviously an actor. 

Not-Scott was watching him patiently, without the nervous tension that usually accompanied real-Scott’s movements. 

“We’re friends, right?” Stiles asked, turning to face him. 

“Of course,” Not-Scott answered. “This isn’t an ‘I’m leaving the show’ conversation, is it? Because, Dylan, you know nobody can play Stiles but you.” 

Stiles brushed off the thought that _he_ could play himself better. That wasn’t the point. “I’m Stiles,” he blurted. 

Not-Scott’s face didn’t change, and Stiles began to think about what not-Scott heard him say. 

“Okay, let’s try this a different way,” he said, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Say your name.” 

“What?” 

“Just do it. Say your full name,” Stiles pleaded. 

“Tyler Garcia Posey,” he said slowly, ending the name like it was a question. 

“Right,” Stiles said, nodding enthusiastically, “You’re Tyler, and I’m Stiles.” Before Tyler could stop him, Stiles soldiered on. “I know it sounds absolutely insane, but I am not from this world. I’m seventeen years old, and I live in Beacon Hills, California.” 

Tyler’s eyes grew serious. “Dude, you know I totally support you, but you’re starting to wig me out.” 

Mind racing, Stiles racked his brain for a way to get this guy to understand. “Okay, how about this: it’s like that episode of Supernatural where Sam and Dean literally break through the fourth wall . . .” At Tyler’s continued blank stare, Stiles frowned. “You don’t watch _Supernatural_?”

“The show that was cancelled like seven years ago?” 

“Are you—Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki?” 

Tyler’s eyebrows knitted in confusion. “You mean Jared Ackles? The guy who auditioned for the part of Derek on the show, but they thought he looked too old. Why?” 

“Okay,” Stiles sighed. With his luck, Sam and Dean would be real in this universe since he apparently wasn’t. “Okay, can you just trust me on this, then? Do you trust me? Or at least trust the person you think I am?” 

“I think I trust you. Or who you think I think you are? Or something.” Tyler shook his head. “You’re confusing me. Of course I trust you.” 

“Then trust me when I say that I am Stiles Stilinski. I don’t know how it happened, but somehow your friend and I switched places.” 

“You’re serious,” Tyler said. 

“Yes!” Stiles exclaimed, flailing his arms wildly. 

“Whoa.” Tyler sagged down onto the couch. “That’s some heavy shit.” Then he added, “Am I dreaming?” 

“No, but I wish I was,” Stiles replied ruefully. 

“We should tell someone.” 

“No,” Stiles said firmly. “Tell no one. If the supernatural doesn’t really exist in this world, they’ll just think your friend . . .” he waited for Tyler to supply the name again.

“Dylan.” 

“That’s right. They’ll think Dylan is crazy and lock _me_ up in the looney bin.” 

“What do we do, then?” 

“Just play it cool for now. Derek will talk to Deaton and find a way to get me back.”


	2. Dylan goes to Lydia's house to study

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains het. Look away if that frightens you.

“I don’t know,” Lydia said, twirling a lock of Dylan’s hair around one finger, “I kind of like him. He knows how to keep his mouth shut.” 

“Uh, thanks,” Dylan said, not quite sure he disliked feeling like a piece of meat. He and Holland had never expressed an interest in one another, but now Dylan could see why Stiles was so in love with Lydia. 

“We are not keeping him!” Derek growled, eyes flashing red. It was much more terrifying than Hoechlin in red contacts. 

“It was just a suggestion,” Lydia huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. 

Dylan caught the scent of her apple shampoo, and his pulse picked up. Derek raised an eyebrow, but remained quiet. 

“Dylan, what were you doing before you woke up here?” Deaton asked gently.

“I was on set . . . in Stiles’ bed. We were filming a scene.” 

“Was there anything you said? Anything you did right beforehand?”

“No.” Dylan shook his head. “I just closed my eyes and when I opened them, I was here.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“My lines, I guess,” Dylan said, running the memory over in his mind. “Stiles was supposed to wake up and realize he was late for school.” 

Deaton nodded in understanding while the rest of the pack looked on, anxiously waiting for answers. “I’m afraid all we can do at this point is wait.” 

None of them were expecting Scott to stand up in an explosion of emotion. “ _Wait_? My best friend has disappeared to fuck-knows-where and you just want us to _wait_?”

“Scott,” Derek growled in warning. 

“No, fuck that!” Scott stood up and stomped towards the door. “When you come up with an actual plan, then you can call me. You all know Stiles would be doing anything but sitting around on his ass if it was one of us in this position.” He slammed the door shut so hard the walls of the apartment shook. 

“I’ll go talk to him,” Allison said softly, leaving much less dramatically. 

“So sorry to crash you party,” Dylan muttered sarcastically, “but it’s not like I planned to trade places with Stiles. I was quite happy _pretending_ to be him.”

“Don’t worry about Scott,” Lydia said, standing up. “He just has a lot going on right now.” 

“Don’t we all,” Dylan muttered. 

Deaton gave him a sympathetic smile as he followed Lydia out the door. 

 

“How long have you and Stiles been dating?” was the first question out of Dylan’s mouth as soon as they were alone. It was the most obvious difference between their worlds, no matter how much the fans begged for it to be otherwise. 

“I wouldn’t exactly call what we’re doing ‘dating.’” 

God, did the guy _ever_ smile? “Okay, so friends with benefits—fucking—whatever. As far as I know, Stiles and Derek just barely tolerate each other.” 

“Almost as long as we’ve known each other, and before you ask, nobody knows about it, and we’re going to keep it that way.”

Dylan mock-saluted. “In that case, where are your other betas?”

“Other betas?”

“Erica, Boyd, and Isaac?”

“Who?” Derek looked genuinely confused. 

“Nevermind,” Dylan said. Somewhere between seasons one and two, then. “How about your Uncle Peter?”

“Dead.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that one,” Dylan said, glancing around like the former Alpha would pop up out of nowhere. 

“We cut his body into pieces, burned them, and scattered the ashes across three different bodies of water. Yes, I’m sure he’s really dead.”

“Wow,” Dylan said, not bothering to hide his surprise. “You’re a lot more thorough than . . . well than our writer, I guess.”

“That’s because I’m not a figment of someone’s imagination. I wasn’t willing to take chances with someone like Peter.”

“Good call,” Dylan nodded slowly. “And the Argents? Are they giving you guys any trouble?” 

“Not since I killed Kate.”

Dylan couldn’t argue with that one, even though it officially made the werewolf standing in front of him a murderer. “Does Allison know what happened?”

“No, and she doesn’t need to. Her parents actually honor the code, and that’s good enough for me. They leave my pack alone, and I leave them alone.”

“Is Scott in your pack?”

Derek narrowed his eyes. “Of course. Why wouldn’t he be?”

“No reason,” Dylan said, but his heartbeat was too quick, and Derek had already seen through the lie. “It’s just that in our show—our universe—you and Scott don’t exactly see eye to eye, and then it turns out that Scott is a true Alpha.” 

He was not expecting to hear the raucous laughter that bubbled up from Derek’s throat. “‘True Alpha?’” Derek repeated. “What the hell is that? Some more shit your writer cooked up?”

Now, it was Dylan’s turn to laugh. “I guess so. How about an Alpha pack? Have you ever heard of one of those?”

Derek lifted an eyebrow. “Did you completely miss the concept of Alpha, Beta, Omega? Should a lone Alpha join another Alpha’s pack, the subordinate Alpha then becomes Beta.”

“What if he kills his entire pack? Does he absorb some of their power?”

“No.” Derek’s reply was immediate and firm. “Betas—alive—make an Alpha stronger. Killing his own pack would only make an Alpha weaker. And give him a deathwish.”

Dylan mulled this new information over. No Alpha pack meant no immediate threat. “What about Jackson? Did he turn into a kanima?”

Something dark crossed Derek’s eyes. “Yes, but he’s gone now.” 

“Gone as in—” 

The low growl in Derek’s throat cut off anything else Dylan was going to say. 

*

Tyler placed Dylan’s script in Stiles’ hands, but acting was a lot harder than it seemed, even when playing oneself. Fortunately, the episode they were taping consisted of a lot of interaction between Allison and Isaac (which was just plain _weird_ , considering they weren’t even _friends_ with that creepy gravedigger kid) so Stiles got to spend most of the day hanging out with Tyler and not-Derek, whose name he learned was, unfortunately, also Tyler. 

“Wait, which one is Hoechlin, again?” Stiles asked, clearly confused. 

“Derek.” 

“Of course.”

“Just relax,” Posey said, clapping Stiles on the back. “They already love you, and you’re going to love them.” 

When filming wrapped for the day, Stiles was faced with the prospect of driving a ridiculously nice car home through one of the busiest cities in America. 

"You can ride with me, if you want," Posey offered, looking over at the dilemma. 

"Really?" Stiles shoved the keys he held into his pocket and hopped into Posey's car. "Thank you so much. I don't have any idea where Dylan lives, nor do I want to risk wrecking his car. That thing is worth like five of my Jeep. At least." 

"No problem. You're on my way. I'll go home, get Seana, and we'll pick you up on our way to the bar." 

"Sounds good," Stiles nodded. On the inside, he was trembling. The only club he had ever been to was Jungle, and that was with Jackson the kanima on the loose. 

Posey dropped him off inside a gated apartment complex. "It's number six, the only gold key on your ring," he said before Stiles shut the door. 

Stiles let himself into the apartment slowly, as if waiting for someone to jump out from around a corner and call him out on his (bad) impersonation of the real Dylan O'Brien. Even for an apartment, it seemed massive. Stiles only poked around a little; he didn't feel like snooping, and he had to get ready for a night out. 

Most unnerving were the photographs depicting people that looked like himself and his friends, even though he knew it wasn't. But Hoechlin was smiling in the photographs, and it made Stiles' heart ache. He had never seen Derek smile like that. 

Posey picked him up about an hour later. His girlfriend was pleasant, and thankfully not one of the people who resembled Stiles' friends. It was weird seeing someone who looked just like his best friend kissing a girl Stiles had never seen, however. 

They were the last to arrive at the club; everyone else was already crammed around a table in the back—even the guy who played the Isaac Lahey. To Stiles' surprise, he turned out to be British, which only served to disorient Stiles further. The group was talking animatedly, and Stiles felt his chest constrict. These people could be his friends—normal people enjoying a normal night out—if not for the freaky supernatural nature of Stiles' life. 

The group greeted the newcomers with hugs, and in Holland's case, a kiss on the cheek. Despite his relationship with Derek, the lingering elements of his crush on Lydia made him blush scarlet. Thankfully, nobody could see it under the dim lights. Stiles squeezed into the booth between Hoechlin and Posey and oddly enough, it made him feel calmer. 

The conversation swelled up around them again, and the drinks began to flow. Stiles was content to sit back and let the familiarity and love wash over him. He wasn't much of a drinker, and had a tendency to get drunk quickly. When the others appeared to be distracted, Hoechlin leaned closer. 

"Is everything okay with you, man? You're quiet tonight." 

"Yeah." Stiles took a sip from his beer for show. "Just tired."

Hoechlin seemed to accept that, but then he began talking about baseball, and Stiles could hardly keep up. By the time Posey dropped him off at the end of the night, Stiles was ready to collapse in Dylan's bed. 

*

For Dylan, pretending to be Stiles was much harder than he'd ever thought possible, especially since the gig had become 24/7. He thought he had left high school behind several years ago. It wasn't hard, so much as a giant waste of his time. He could see why Stiles got so frustrated when the others left him out of the loop. 

The biggest issue to deal with, by far, was Derek. The man shadowed Dylan at every turn; it made him uneasy. He didn't want to be here any more than Derek, and the only person who seemed to _like_ him was Lydia. For all the grief she gave Stiles, she couldn't get enough of Dylan. 

Some of the other kids at school kept side-eying them, but Lydia brushed it off with a toss of her hair over one shoulder. "It's none of their business who I ask to sit at my lunch table, Stiles." She gave him a once-over. "It just so happens that you finally learned how to dress yourself."

Confused, Dylan looked down at his outfit: a black t-shirt and jeans because he refused to wear plaid. "Thanks, I think," he said, feeling less confident about his apparel choice. Part of him wondered if Lydia's interest in him was due to Derek's influence. 

"So, you should come over tonight since we have an anatomy test tomorrow," she continued like they had been in the middle of a conversation. 

"Okay," Dylan said slowly. He hadn't taken an anatomy test in about three years, so he could definitely use the help. 

 

He found himself on Lydia's doorstep with more nerves than he could have imagined possible. He tried to remind himself that this was just a 17-year-old girl, but he couldn't shake the anxiety he felt. Meeting his castmates wasn't this imposing. 

Lydia answered the door wearing an indecently low-cut sweater and a pair of cropped yoga pants. Her feet were bare, toenails painted pink with little yellow flowers. Holland definitely cared about her appearance, but it seemed like Lydia made every attempt to go the extra mile. 

"Dylan?" Lydia asked, and he realized he had been staring at her toes. 

"Sorry," he shook his head. 

"Come on." She pulled him into the house. "My parents are out for the night, so there's no rush, but that also means there's no reason to wait." 

"Sure," Dylan agreed absently, following the girl to her room. He dropped Stiles' backpack on the desk chair and began rifling through it. "I haven't studied anatomy in about three years, so . . ." As he turned around, his mouth went dry.

Lydia was pulling the sweater over her head, revealing a lacy pink and yellow bra. In the back of his mind, Dylan dimly realized that it matched her toenail polish. 

"I thought we were studying?" he asked, although his body was suddenly _very_ interested in doing something else. 

"Oh, we are," Lydia said innocently as she reached for Dylan's hands to put them on her breasts. "I figured we would start with female anatomy." 

All thoughts of school fled Dylan's mind.

*

It wasn't hard for Stiles to adapt to the filming schedule—he was used to school, anyway. Even playing himself was getting progressively easier. But despite being around people who looked like his friends—and they were a great group—he felt horribly, depressingly lonely. He missed Scott and Derek, but most of all, he missed his dad. He constantly worried about whether or not Dylan was taking care of his dad (if he was even there), and if he wasn't there, Stiles worried about his dad worrying about _him_. Sure, his dad had a place in this universe, but the actor who played him—Linden—was nothing like his father. Linden acted more like the Tylers than an adult. Working next to him just made Stiles more homesick, not to mention that without his Adderall and Zoloft, he worried he might lose it all together. 

"Dylan!" the director, whose name Stiles learned, was Bram, called out. "Are you still with us?"

"Sorry." Stiles shook his head. He was supposed to be having a conversation with Deaton and Scott about something werewolf-related, but it was all so ridiculous and unrealistic and all he wanted to do was go home to Beacon Hills. Dylan might have a blast playing Stiles, but Stiles thought playing Dylan playing himself absolutely sucked. 

When the director was finally satisfied with the shot, and Stiles was released from the set, he collapsed into Dylan's chair with a sigh.

"Rough day, kid?" 

Stiles looked up so fast he felt something in his neck wrench. "Ahh!" he gasped, reaching for the muscle. Mentally, he forced himself to calm down as he gave Linden a weak smile. "Yeah, I can honestly say I've had better days." 

"You want to talk about it?" Linden asked, sitting down in Posey's chair. 

Stiles shrugged. "Just tired. Depressed. I need a vacation, I think." 

"Acting is a hard gig, but you don't need me to tell you that." 

"I just need someone to tell me it gets better," Stiles said honestly. 

"Oh, it does," Linden promised. "But then when you're past your prime, you find yourself playing the dad on a show about teenage werewolves." 

When Linden got up to walk away, Stiles wasn't sure if that meant he got better, but hopefully, that wouldn't be his future, either way. When he got home, he planned to hug his dad and tell him how much he loved him.


	3. Scott and Derek form a plan and Stiles gets comfortable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry I took so long to update this. Right Place, Wrong Time is coming next, I promise!

The next morning at school, Scott grabbed Dylan as soon as he walked through the door. “We need to talk,” he said, shuffling Dylan into the nearest bathroom. “Dude. You had sex with Lydia?”

“So?”

Scott groaned, covering his face with his hands. “So, the problem is you’re not supposed to be you. You’re supposed to be Stiles.”

“Hasn’t he been in love with this girl since like third grade? I fail to see the problem here. Won’t this like . . . up his street cred, or something?”

“You are just . . .” Scott shook his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know.” Dylan gave him a salacious grin. “That’s what Lydia told me last night.”

*

Scott ignored him throughout first and second period. Dylan felt bad about it because he wasn’t trying to push the teenager’s buttons. Sleeping with Lydia had nothing to do with Scott, anyway. Who was Dylan to deny an extremely attractive girl who came on to him? It’s not like they would ever see each other again once he and Stiles switched back. If they ever switched back.

In short: being Stiles sucked. And as soon as Derek found out, he had Dylan cornered. Literally.

“You have to break it off.”

“Why?”

Derek might be physically intimidating, but Dylan refused to be afraid of a man who regularly relied on a bunch of teenagers to keep him alive.

“Just trust me.”

“Is it because she’s a banshee?”

“How did you know that?”

“One step ahead of you, pal,” Dylan grinned.

Derek growled low, and his eyes flashed red, but at least he stepped away. “You need to be careful, Dylan. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. This isn’t a game. If you don’t get your shit together, then Stiles—” Derek stopped short.

“Then Stiles what?” Dylan pressed. “Then Stiles and I won’t switch back if I don’t act like him? That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? That’s why Scott was so wound up about this, too. You think I’m gonna recreate Stiles in my image, and he won’t be able to come home.”

Derek was silent, but the look on his face told Dylan everything he needed to know.

“Get the fuck out.”

Derek went without a fight.

Without Derek and Scott, Dylan was as alone as he could get. He was beginning to really miss his own family and friends, not to mention his castmates. He still had Lydia, but she was only good for one thing, and she was a poor replacement for Brit, at that.

*

As well as he got along with the others, Stiles was growing desperate to get home. He tried everything he could think of from clicking his heels three times to making a list of all the things he loved about his life.

Nothing worked.

He was beginning to think he would be doomed to live as Dylan O’Brien for the rest of his life. While some things were good, like living in Dylan’s house and driving his car (with Posey’s help), the thought of living out his days as someone else was terrifying.

“Dylan!” the Tylers shouted, slamming into the trailer where Stiles was trying to take a nap. The long night shoots were beginning to take a toll on him.

“Wake up, sleepyhead. We want to play some GTA, but we need you awake to do that,” Hoechlin said, settling on the couch with Posey.

Stiles dragged himself out of Dylan’s (very) comfortable bed and took the empty seat.

“How are you asleep? It’s like two in the afternoon.”

“Just tired. I haven’t been sleeping very well lately.” He neglected to remind them that he was _not_ and will never be Dylan O’Brien.

“You get used to it.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, though he disagreed completely.

*

When the weeks bled on with no return home in sight, Dylan fell into a routine. It was either that or go completely mad. He was surprised to discover that the Sheriff was his only real ally, the one who loved him—Stiles—unconditionally.

After school, Dylan would cook dinner for the two of them. He enjoyed cooking, and he knew that Stiles took responsibility for ensuring his dad ate healthy. It also gave him something concrete, something to focus on. He remembered reading that cooking is good therapy for people with PTSD, and he was sure it applied to him.

By the time the Sheriff got home, Dylan had a recipe he found in one of the magazines they got in the mail addressed to Stiles. He wasn’t much of a cook, but the directions were easy enough to follow

“Good job, kiddo,” Stiles’ dad told him as they cleaned up afterwards.

Dylan felt his face heat pleasantly at the praise. He wasn’t used to being complimented on something other than his “natural” acting skills. Often it was unnerving because he wasn’t acting—not even trying—he was just being himself. He played Stiles so well he sometimes worried he wouldn’t be able to get work after Teen Wolf.

*

As much as he didn’t want to, Stiles found himself inexplicably drawn to the Tylers. It didn’t help that they looked exactly like his best friend and boyfriend (except for Posey’s tattoos, which were just weird). They also accepted him seamlessly into the fold like he really was Dylan, no matter how many times he reminded them otherwise.

Hoechlin, especially, was hard not to love. He talked almost as much as Stiles, and his smile was infectious. Stiles tried not to scowl at the various girls he dated and flirted with. He also tried to remind himself about his boyfriend back home, but it was easier said than done when he was staring Derek’s happy, energetic (but resolutely straight) doppleganger in the face.

“Earth to Stiles,” Crystal said, nudging her shoulder into his to get his attention.

“What?” he asked, shaking himself out of his reverie. “Sorry, I got lost there for a minute.”

“It’s okay,” Crystal smiled. “I just asked how your day was going.”

“Could be better,” Stiles sighed, leaning back in his chair. They were in the food service room enjoying a much-needed lunch. The food was another aspect of Dylan’s life Stiles could get used to. “I could be home."

“I know how you feel. I haven’t seen my parents in—oh! Oh, you mean home like _Beacon Hills_.”

Stiles nodded slowly. It was easy for the others to forget who he was.

“Oh, Stiles, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that.”

Stiles gave her a tight smile. “I know. I should probably get going, though. Lots of lines to memorize.” What he really planned to do was lock himself in his trailer and cry.

*

“What’s wrong with you?” Lydia asked as she watched Dylan’s reflection in her makeup mirror. “You seemed different today. Moody, or something. You’re not getting sick, are you?”

“I’m not sick,” Dylan replied, bending down to lace his shoes. His answer must have satisfied her because she resumed fixing her makeup.

With a pleased hum, Lydia dropped her mascara on the vanity and spun around to face Dylan. “Something is going on with you,” she said, eyeing him critically. “You weren’t as . . . enthusiastic as you usually are.”

“I’m just tired.”

“No.” Lydia shook her head. She stood up and crossed the room to Dylan. “I think there’s something else going on with you. I haven’t seen you talking to Scott all week.”

Dylan clenched his teeth. “That’s because Scott and I aren’t talking right now.”

Lydia was too perceptive for her own good. “Derek, too, am I right?”

Dylan’s silence gave him away.

“Listen, Dylan,” she said, smoothing her hands down the front of his t-shirt, “we both know that the only way you’re going to get out of this is by acting like Stiles. Now, having the opportunity to sleep with me is just bonus points, but you still need to keep up appearances, or else people are going to start talking, and then I’ll have to let you go.” Her hand snaked down to palm his dick, which was trying valiantly to harden again. “And we don’t want that to happen, do we?” She released him when he shook his head. “Good.”

*

Scott was Dylan’s first step in cleaning up the mess he had made of Stiles’ life. Lucky for him, Scott was willing to forgive and forget.

“Relax a little, okay man? You’re way too serious to be playing the part of my best friend.”

“That is ironic on too many levels,” Dylan replied, shaking his head.

They were in the Jeep, headed to the loft to talk to Derek. As much as Dylan hated to admit it, Lydia was right. At the very least, he needed to act the part of Stiles and pretend to get along with his packmates.

“What?” Derek growled when he opened the door to find Scott and Dylan.

“Dylan has something he wants to say to you,” Scott said, nudging the human forward.

Derek crossed his massive arms over his chest and waited.

“I’m sorry for being such a dick to you before.”

Derek’s expression remained stoic.

“And for not trusting you.”

Still, no response.

“And because I’m not Stiles?”

Derek sighed and uncrossed his arms. “Get in here.”

Scott and Stiles followed suit. Derek’s apartment looked the same as it had the last time Dylan was here, and he felt no more comfortable than he had then.

“Lydia thinks I need to act more like Stiles if we’re ever going to switch back,” Dylan said without preamble.

“Does she now?” Derek raised one eyebrow and Dylan felt like the werewolf was reading his mind.

“Unless you have a better idea. But I’m not sleeping with you.”

“What would ever give you that idea?” The tone of Derek’s voice silenced any fight Dylan felt.

“Let’s just try, okay?” Scott said, stepping verbally between the other two. “Even if we only do it for a week, we haven’t lost anything. Trying out a theory—even something as crazy,” the sarcasm in Scott’s voice is obvious, “as having Dylan act like Stiles won’t lose us anything, especially if he is still here. No offense.”

“None taken. I’m sure I want to get out of here as badly as you want Stiles back. Now, if that’s settled, then I’m going to head home. I feel like I haven’t slept in days.”

_Act like Stiles: take two. Action!_

*

The weather in California became progressively nicer, and with it, Stiles’ mood began to improve. He even agreed to go surfing with the others. He also stopped correcting them when they called him Dylan.

The six of them—Hoechlin, Crystal, Posey, Daniel, Holland and himself loaded up into two cars and headed to the coast. Thanks to Posey, Stiles discovered that Dylan owned a surfboard, which was currently tethered to the top of the car with the others. Stiles had been surfing a few times, and he was excited to relax and spend a day away from the studio. It made him feel like he was back with his friends from Beacon Hills.

They got to the beach—conveniently a spot owned by one of the show’s producers, so they were guaranteed to be alone—and piled out of the car. The boys headed straight for the water while Stiles hung back with the girls, who were setting up their towels.

“Aren’t you surfing, Dylan?” Holland asked, squinting up at him as she slid comically large sunglasses up her nose.

“Yeah.” Stile stared out across the ocean at Posey, Hoechlin, and Daniel and his heart ached for Scott and Derek. Well, Isaac, too. Heaving a sigh, he hauled himself to his feet and trudged off towards the water.

By the time they all piled back into the cars, they were wet, sunburnt, and laughing. Thoughts of Beacon Hills had finally left Stiles’ mind.


	4. Dylan and Stiles accept that things have changed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for taking so long to update this, but as you can see, we now have an ETA!
> 
> Thanks so much for sticking with me.
> 
> xx

“If my life was a movie, this would be _Freaky Friday_ , and I’d be back to myself by now. I might have had to walk around in Jamie Lee Curtis’ body for a little while, but it could always be worse.” Dylan looked over at Scott. They were supposed to be doing homework, but Dylan was finding it impossible to concentrate on the fall of the Berlin Wall. “Shouldn’t we go talk to Deaton, or something?” 

Scott looked up from his history book in surprise. “If he hasn't come through by now, why would he have anything that could help us?” 

Dylan mimicked Scott’s look of confusion. “Isn’t he like . . . your Gandalf, or something? He’s the one who always have the answers when you guys get into trouble? Never mind. I think this whole thing is just getting too ridiculous for me to handle. Maybe I’m nuts. Maybe I’m losing my mind. Maybe that’s what this whole thing is. I’m actually trapped in my mind thinking that I’m stuck in the world of Teen Wolf, and you are all just figments of my—or Jeff’s—imagination.” 

Scott pinched his arm. 

“Ouch!” Dylan said, jerking away. “What did you do that for?” 

“Did that seem real enough?” 

“Still not helping.” 

“Maybe we need a new technique. Obviously, acting like Stiles isn’t enough because you . . . do that for a living. Wow, that is so weird to say.” 

Dylan closed his book with a sigh. He wasn’t going to get any of Stiles’ homework done, anyway. “I really hope you’re going to follow that astute observation up with a new idea. No offense, but I am so unbelievably sick of being stuck in high school.” 

“What do you have that Stiles doesn’t?” 

“A job?” Dylan said automatically. 

“I’m serious.” 

“So am I!” 

“Okay.” Scott paused for a minute to compose himself. “As a person. Like . . . emotionally or intellectually or something. What do you have that Stiles doesn’t?” 

Dylan was quiet as he thought about the answer. Scott seemed to be on to something here. “Patience, probably. He’s a lot more . . . ” Dylan chose his next words carefully. “Frenetic than I am. It’s harder for him to calm down.” 

Scott nodded in agreement. “What about Stiles? What does he have that you don’t, then?” 

“Optimism. He is so unwaveringly optimistic about everything, and sometimes I let the fear get the best of me.” 

“So, what are you thinking?” Dylan asked. “I sure hope you have a plan in that fluffy head of yours.” 

“It was actually the _Freaky Friday_ reference that made me think of it. If acting like each other isn’t the answer, acting like yourselves might be.” 

Dylan stared at him. “I’m not following. You guys told me not to be myself when I got here.” 

Thankfully, Scott was patient. “Something sent you here, so it’s got to send you back. Maybe the reason you switched places is because you each have what the other needs. Like _Freaky Friday_.” 

“I’m supposed to just sit back and be patient? Wait for the universe to set things straight?” 

“I’m actually thinking you should be more optimistic.”

“But that’s like Stiles.” Dylan groaned and put his head in his hands. “How about I focus on being patient and optimistic?”

“I don’t think either of those things will hurt.” The look Scott gave him was so happy puppy, Dylan couldn’t help but smile back. 

*

Leaning back in a chair with Dylan O’Brien emblazoned on the back, Stiles read through the script in his hand again. Today, he was playing the part where he has been missing for two days (oh irony), and he reveals to Scott that he’s actually the evil Nogitsune version of Stiles. 

Stiles can’t help but wonder about the real Dylan O’Brien, and if he is the Nogitsune. The plot of Teen Wolf is creeping him out more than usual, and if it weren’t for Dylan’s cast mates, Stiles might not have made it through so many days with his sanity intact. 

Posey takes a seat next to him and cranes his head to glance at Stiles’ script. “You need some more time? You look like that thing is ready to bite you.” 

“I’ll be fine.” Stiles sighs and flips back to the first page. “All I have to do is be myself . . . just a little bit creepier and evil . . . er.”

“You’ll be fine.” Posey patted him on the back. “If you get tripped up, we can take a break. Just roll with it; you’ll be fine. We’ve done this a hundred times, Dyl.” 

Dylan. Of course. Because most of his cast mates had forgotten that this was Stiles. Or they assumed that “Dylan” had had an off-day when he told them all he was actually Stiles Stilinski. Or they just didn’t care. Or—

“You guys ready?” Russell called. 

Stiles’ head shot up. The scene in the vet was set up—he still couldn’t believe how much it looked like the Beacon Hills Veterinary Clinic without having any actual walls. He stood on shaky legs, but Stiles felt his head swim. 

“Hey.” Pausing in his steps, Posey gave him a concerned look. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look pale . . . er than usual.” 

Stiles forced a smile onto his face. “I’m fine. Just a little tired, I guess. This makeup probably doesn’t help.” They had painted his face to make him look like a walking corpse, so the fact that Posey could see something was wrong beneath the makeup gave Stiles pause. 

Together, Stiles and Posey joined one of the newcomers to the cast, Arden, on the set. There were a few of the actors playing Oni waiting off to the side for their cue. 

“Okay,” Russell said, gathering the three of them close. “So Stiles and Kira, you guys are going to bring Scott through the door of the vet. As soon as that happens, Stiles, you slam Kira into the exam table and she’s knocked out.” 

Arden nodded. She wouldn’t be in this scene very long, but the look on her face indicated that she was taking this seriously. Stiles gulped nervously. He certainly didn’t want to hurt her by pushing her too hard or something. 

“After that, Stiles is going to twist the knife in Scott’s stomach and deliver his monologue.” 

Said “knife” was already sticking out of Posey’s shirt, and he gave them all a wide smile. Even though it was fake, it still gave Stiles the creeps. 

“Do you remember all your lines?” Posey gave him a challenging grin. 

“Why don’t you focus on being Scott and I’ll focus on being Stiles?” 

“Or the Nogitsune.” 

Stiles sighed. “I got this.” 

They stood on their marks and Russell called action. 

Getting Posey through the door to the vet was pretty easy, but when it came time to “slam” Arden’s head against the table, Stiles just couldn’t do it with enough force to make it look real. Russell cut the scene three times before he stepped in. 

“You’re not going to hurt her, Dylan. You’re not even pushing her down. She’s going to provide more of the movement than you are, but you need to make it look like you’re knocking her out. Arden, can you do it without Dylan for a moment?” 

“Sure.” She jerked her head and body towards the table like an invisible hand was slamming her down. 

“Exactly! Just like that, only take Dylan along for the ride. Dylan, I want you to just tense your arm up. It will give it that realistic feel.” 

“Like this?” Stiles mimicked shoving Arden down without touching her, and Russell threw his hands up in excitement. “Yes! Exactly like that. Excellent!” 

*

Dylan failed Stiles’ history test. Scott leaned over so he could see the red D- at the top of the page. He whistled low through his teeth. 

“I don’t think you’ve ever done that bad on a test in this class.” 

“That’s because I’m not in this class.” With an irritated noise, Dylan shoved the paper into Stiles’ backpack as the bell rang. One more class and then they would be free. 

Or, it wouldn’t be so bad if Harris’ class wasn’t the last of the day. 

Dylan had never had a chemistry class in his life, so trying to fumble his way through one in which the teacher hated who he thought Dylan was . . . was like trying to juggle broken glass. 

They took their seats—Dylan next to Lydia because she insisted—and Scott next to Greenburg because it was the only one left. 

As soon as the door shut behind the last student, Harris clapped his hands together. “Pop quiz. Take everything off your desk except a pencil.” At the sound of a collective groan, Harris raised an eyebrow. “If you like, I can make the quiz 20 questions instead of 10.” 

That shut the class up successfully. 

Harris walked to the front of the room and began passing out quiz sheets. “You have 30 minutes. This is not an open book, open note, or open partner quiz. I suggest you take your time and double check your work.” He dropped two quiz sheets onto Dylan and Lydia’s table. “Anyone caught cheating will be given an automatic zero.” 

Dylan resisted the urge to flip him off. He never imagined he would be taunted by a fictional character, and now here he was, Professor Snape in the flesh, accusing him of cheating. With an exaggerated eye roll, Dylan looked down at the first question. 

_Sodium hydroxide is a strong base. What is the pH of a 0.02M sodium hydroxide solution?_

A 2.0  
B 12.0  
C 12.3  
D 1.7

This sounded like one of those horrible math problems about the trains colliding. What the hell does being a strong base have to do with the pH of a solution? How was that supposed to give him the answer? What was the other number he was supposed to multiply? 

Finally, he came to the conclusion that the answer should be something he had to multiply by .02. Shrugging, Dylan selected “A” and moved to the next question. 

By the time he got to number 6, Lydia was already turning in her quiz. He glanced up as she walked past him and raised an eyebrow. She was supposed to help him with this stuff. 

Dylan directed his eyes back to his paper. 

“Mr. Stilinski.” 

Surprised, Stiles’ head shot up. 

“Bring me your quiz.” 

Stiles’ expression clouded with confusion. “I’m not finished. We still have five minutes.” 

“I saw you trying to look off of Ms. Martin’s paper. That’s cheating. Bring me your quiz.” 

“I wasn’t cheating,” Stiles insisted. No way was he letting this one go without a fight. So what if he was going to fail the quiz, anyway? He would fail on his own merit and not because Harris demanded it. 

“Bring me your quiz, now, Mr. Stilinski, or you will spend the afternoon in detention.” 

Stiles’ eyes narrowed. Bring it on. “Why don’t you make it Saturday afternoon detention, Principal Vernon?”

Harris’ lips disappeared into a thin, firm line. He stood up. “Take yourself to the principal’s office, Mr. Stilinski. I do not want you in my classroom.” 

“Good.” Stiles stood up and shouldered his backpack. He left his half-finished quiz on the desk and sauntered to the door. “I don’t want to be here, anyway.” 

*

By the time they wrapped filming for the day, Stiles was exhausted. His feet hurt, his eyes felt like they were coated with sand, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with Derek. What he had, however, was Hoechlin. 

“You okay to drive, Dylan?” Hoechlin asked, jingling his keys in one hand. His smile was too bright and happy for this time of night and Stiles couldn’t decide if he wanted to punch him or kiss him for it. 

He settled on a groan. “Unless you want to.” He tried not to sound so plaintive about it. 

“Come on.” Hoechlin wrapped an arm around Dylan’s shoulders and led him to the car. He even smelled like Derek. 

Dylan slept all the way back to his house. It wasn’t until Hoechlin was shaking his shoulder and calling his name that he woke up. 

“Hey, dude,” Hoechlin said softly. “We’re here. Can you get inside okay?” 

Dylan mumbled something unintelligible and opened the car door. He managed to get his key in the lock and turned to give Hoechlin a tired wave before stumbling inside the house. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.


End file.
